


you'd better say my name like:

by alexanger



Series: good/bad/dirty [5]
Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Fair Folk, Sirens, this is awful dont even read it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-15
Updated: 2017-03-15
Packaged: 2018-10-05 14:04:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10309853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexanger/pseuds/alexanger
Summary: “It isn’t too late,” Hamilton whispers. “You can still bring me home. You can save me. I’ll owe you a life debt.”





	

He writes a letter to his wife. He writes a letter full of apologies and regret, and he considers excuses but drops them all in favour of something close enough to the truth that it will sound honest.

He doesn’t tell her about the affair or his blood, but he does tell her about the fogginess and confusion. Perhaps she will imagine he’d fallen ill in his last few -

Days? Weeks? Has it been a year? It’s all so blurry and he can’t put his finger on it, no matter how hard he tries.

Well, very soon it won’t matter. Jefferson has all but ordered him to

  


* * *

  


“I don’t know that I want to go through with this,” Hamilton says. He’s sitting back against Jefferson’s chest, bare from the waist up, basking in the sensation of Jefferson’s fingers trailing up and down along his sternum.

“It’s unmanful to back down,” Jefferson says. “Just one night, Hamilton. That’s all you have to endure now. Make it to tomorrow and fire at the sky. You know how that goes, don’t you?”

It’s a jab at Philip and Hamilton  _ should  _ be mad but he can’t muster up the energy. “I know,” he murmurs.

“Good,” says Jefferson, and then there’s silence between them, nothing but the sensation of cold fingertips on Hamilton’s skin and the chill of Jefferson’s breath.

  


* * *

  


Jefferson rows him across the river. His arms seem to flow seamlessly into the oars; he looks as though he was born to be on the water.

“I am - apprehensive,” Hamilton says.

Jefferson must not hear him over the waves, because he makes no response.

  


* * *

  


Eliza wakes in the small hours and comes to his desk, where he sits puzzling over his letter.

“You never stop,” she murmurs. She rests her chin on his shoulder and wraps her arms around him, and he leans back into her, savouring her warmth and the way she smells when she’s sleepy and pliant. Her hair cascades down past his face.

“I have so much to get done,” he tells her. “I can’t afford to stop.”

“Come back to bed, love. Let yourself rest, if only for a few hours.”

“I have a meeting -”

“Just an hour then, Alexander.”

“At dawn,” he tells her.

“Well, I’m going back to sleep,” she says, and she presses a kiss to his cheek.

As she leaves, he whispers, “Eliza -”

“Mm?” She already seems so far, and the words have left his lips. He can’t figure out where they’ve escaped to.

“Nothing,” he says. She smiles at him, and just like that, she’s gone.

He wonders if he’ll ever close that distance again.

  


* * *

  


His ribs are shattered. He can feel bone in his lung.

  


* * *

  


Jefferson rows in long, smooth strokes. Jefferson has a broad chest and arms knotted with muscle. Jefferson smells the same as the air out here, a scent so crisp it makes one’s nostrils sting. Jefferson has a broad grin like jagged rocks thrusting up out of the ocean.

Jefferson glances over and says, “You have the pistols.”

“Yes,” says Hamilton.

“Good.” There’s silence for a moment, and then Jefferson says, “you know - you don’t need to throw the shot, Hamilton. You could wound him. Kill him. It’s well within your rights.”

“My rights.” Hamilton laughs bitterly. “I’d been under the impression I no longer had any.”

“Why ever not?”

“You -”

Jefferson glances up, his gaze sharp and venomous. Hamilton shuts his mouth.

“You don’t have to aim for him, then,” Jefferson says. “Who am I to tell you anything? Why should my opinion matter? It’s not as though you’ve ever  _ once  _ considered my feelings. You’ve never listened to any of my suggestions.”

“You told me to draw him out,” Hamilton says. He’s exhausted.

“I did no such thing,” says Jefferson, indignant.

Hamilton has clear memories, though, of Jefferson telling him to draw Burr out, to provoke him near to madness, to needle until the challenge was issued. He  _ knows  _ this to be true, but he thinks of Jefferson telling him  _ everybody lies. Everybody but me  _ and suddenly he doubts himself enough to whisper, “you’re correct, I was mistaken, I apologize.”

“That’s quite alright,” Jefferson says, but he speaks with the air of a man deeply wounded. “I won’t hold it against you.”

“Very kind of you,” Hamilton murmurs. He has the sudden urge to take Jefferson’s fingers in his mouth and bite down.

  


* * *

  


Burr glances at the two of them, sizes them up, and says

  


* * *

  


Hamilton’s pistols Hamilton’s choice of position Hamilton’s choice of weapons Hamilton’s right to  _ walk away Alexander walk away right now and drop this and live - _

_   
_

* * *

  


_ There’s a hole in my chest  _ Hamilton said once to someone a thousand lifetimes ago, and he remembers the way it feels, the rot, the ache, the hope that someone might reach inside of him and place an acorn between his lungs.

  


* * *

  


“Well, I’m going back to sleep,” Eliza had said.

Hamilton dozes in the boat, his shirt damp and warm. He tastes rust in his mouth.

“Take me home?” he asks for the millionth time.

“No,” Jefferson says.

Hamilton hadn’t expected anything different.

  


* * *

  


Hamilton chooses a view of the city. He stands for a moment looking out across the river. He imagines that perhaps he can see his house, that perhaps if he whispers with enough love his wife will hear him.

“It’s time,” says Jefferson. There’s something almost mournful in his voice.

Hamilton considers spending his bullet on himself.

  


* * *

  


He finishes the letter and stares at the ink as it dries. He’s already forgotten everything it says. It may be entirely nonsense, but that’s fine; if he lives, he needn’t give it to her. And if he doesn’t, he won’t be around to see the judgement in her eyes.

Hamilton pauses, then scribbles  _ best of wives and best of women  _ and hopes that she will know, when she reads that, that there has never been anyone dearer. That he has never betrayed her, no matter how far he’s strayed.

He signs his name and folds the paper and seals it like he’s sealing a casket, and just like that, he knows he’s ready.

Jefferson is waiting to row him.

He leaves home.

  


* * *

  


He aims up and to the right and his bullet thuds into a tree behind Burr and Hamilton cries out. He can almost feel the pain the tree must be feeling - he can’t wrap his mind around the excruciating pain he must have caused the tree and he wonders if it was ever alive, vital, soft flesh and straining muscle in the way that John was. It aches deep in his bones to think that perhaps he’s caused th

The bullet slams through his ribs and shreds his muscle and he can feel fire licking along the length of his spine and he’s bleeding, he’s bleeding, it’s  _ inside him _ and it’s hard to breathe and his ribs are shattered and he can feel bone in his lungs and his legs give out and suddenly he’s on the ground, looking up at the trees.

The leaves rustle overhead. It’s a beautiful day.

It’s a beautiful day, and Hamilton knows that the blood flowing from his chest will nourish the grass beneath him.

The pain hits and he curls in on himself. He blinks and Jefferson is holding him up.

Burr glances at the two of them, sizes them up, and says, “Hamilton -”

Van Ness ushers Burr away and then it’s just Hamilton and Jefferson and the doctor, who says, “I’ll take him home -”

“Meet us there,” Jefferson says. “I don’t trust Burr - he’ll try to get away - you make sure he’s held accountable, make sure he pays for this. I’ll take Hamilton home.”

“Take me home,” Hamilton whispers.

The doctor looks doubtful but Jefferson stares into his eyes, opens his mouth, shows the points of his teeth, and then it’s just the two of them and Hamilton feels dread knot in his belly.

“This is what you wanted,” he says. It’s not a question.

Jefferson answers anyway. “Yes.”

“Are you going to take me home?”

“I told you before,” Jefferson says. “I don’t surrender my toys. I use every part of them.”

He puts a hand on Hamilton’s chest and strokes his fingertips through the blood, then raises them to his mouth and licks. His teeth gleam.

Hamilton closes his eyes.

Jefferson is lifting him, hoisting him like he weighs nothing.

“Take me home,” Hamilton says.

“No,” says Jefferson.

The boat is just where they’d left it, pulled up on the bank and lashed to a stake driven into the ground. Jefferson deposits Hamilton on one of the benches and props him up against a roll of canvas.

“Take me home,” Hamilton says again.

“No,” Jefferson repeats.

And just like that, the dam breaks. Hamilton is too exhausted for tears; he can feel his life cascading out of him, his legs have gone numb, and he’s desperate to see his wife. He begs, with all the strength he can muster, “Jefferson, please - please take me home. Please take me home, my son died there, my son was shot  _ here _ I don’t want to die here I want to go home, please take me home, Thomas - Thomas,  _ please  _ take me home -”

“No,” Jefferson says. He pulls the stake up from the bank, steps into the boat, and begins to row.

“Please,” Hamilton says. His voice is a hoarse groan; it’s hard to draw enough air into his lungs. “Please, I’ll do anything if you only bring me home to my wife. I’m scared, Thomas.”

“I know,” Jefferson says.

“Then take me  _ home, _ Thomas. Please. I’ve been so good - I’ve done as you asked -”

“Stop speaking.”

Hamilton falls silent. He stares, breathing raggedly, as Jefferson rows them out into the middle of the river. It’s less than two miles to the shore but it may as well be a thousand. He lifts a hand towards the city and hopes that, back home, in their bed, perhaps Eliza might feel the echo of his fingertips.

Jefferson backs water and stills the boat, and then rises to close the distance between the two of them. He moves like water and the boat hardly rocks. Soon, he’s standing over Hamilton, threatening, predatory, possessive.

Hamilton feels like meat.

Jefferson kneels and presses a kiss to Hamilton’s stomach, just over his navel. “Sweet Alexander,” he murmurs. “You’ve been a pleasure, you really have. I always feel a little bit of regret when it comes to this.”

“It isn’t too late,” Hamilton whispers. “You can still bring me home. You can save me. I’ll owe you a life debt.”

“It’s far too late, Alexander. You’re dying.”

And Hamilton knows this, he’s known since the moment the bullet hit, but to hear it from Jefferson -

He weeps, then, and as he weeps Jefferson licks the blood away from his wound. It’s terrible - the sensation of Jefferson’s tongue dipping into the wound is wet and horribly intimate and it stings a little when his teeth rasp at the skin where it’s broken, but as he laps the sting eases. It still hurts deep inside but at least on the surface it isn’t as unbearable.

“What are you doing?” Hamilton asks.

Jefferson doesn’t reply for a moment. When he speaks, he doesn’t offer an answer; instead, he says, “I’ve known you weren’t entirely human for quite some time. But you aren’t as clever as I am, are you? You miss things so easily.”

That’s when Hamilton notices the gashes at the sides of Jefferson’s neck again. He groans and shifts and Jefferson grazes his teeth against the wound. It’s a warning.

“I don’t think you’ve ever noticed anything important. You’re so wrapped up in yourself that you never bother to open your eyes, and it’s been so  _ obvious  _ this whole time. I never made any attempt to hide it.”

“Oh,” says Hamilton.

“You know what comes next, Hamilton. You’ve been living it your whole life. There are predators and prey, and you’ve been so obliging - so pliant for me - and now we’re through, and you made it so effortless. You took care of all of it for me. I only had to insert myself here and there and wait for you to play it all out by yourself.”

“Take me home,” Hamilton pleads.

“No,” says Jefferson, although there’s a hint of mourning in his eyes.

“It’s not too late,” Hamilton says.

In response, Jefferson gets to his feet, shucks his clothing, and slips into the water.

There’s a long moment where Hamilton is alone with the gentle rocking of the waves and the shuddering of his breath.

A splash. Jefferson resurfaces, and there’s the gashes on his neck and webbing between his fingers, and he props himself up on the edge of the boat and tilts it and Hamilton is falling into the water -

Jefferson puts an arm around his chest, under his arms, holds him up.

“Take a deep breath,” he says.

“Take me home,” says Hamilton.

“Take a deep breath, Hamilton -”

“Thomas,  _ please _ -”

Jefferson digs his fingers into Hamilton’s wound and says, “I won’t ask you again. Take a deep breath.”

Hamilton shudders and retches. “Why?” he manages to wheeze.

“I want you to see. Breathe. Now,” Jefferson says.

So Hamilton takes the deepest breath he can manage.

Jefferson pulls him under. Jefferson has been pulling him under for so long but this time Hamilton  _ knows  _ what’s happening and his eyes are open.

He can see jagged rocks. He can see the webbing between Jefferson’s toes. He can see his blood spilling into the water and leaving a trail up towards the surface. He would like to follow that trail; he already misses the sky.

He wants to die beneath the trees.

The rocks are like Jefferson’s teeth and perhaps on some level he’s always known. Perhaps he’s always understood that peculiar scent of salt and horizon. Perhaps he knew the moment Jefferson placed the chain around his neck.

The jagged rocks are like Jefferson’s teeth and he is dragged down, down, into Jefferson’s mouth, and Jefferson’s hand is clenched on his wrist and it’s getting dark. It’s getting dark and his air is running out. It’s getting dark and he can’t feel his legs.

His spectacles are gone. When did they disappear? He wonders if they’ll roll across the bottom of the river, if they’ll ever come to shore. He wonders if a part of him will live in the battered frames and smashed glass.

He wonders if John will know him when they meet, wherever they meet -

They won’t meet. John is a tree, John is alive, and by the time his tree passes on Hamilton will be nothing but the barest wisp of a memory.

Perhaps when he decays the water will hold some part of him and evaporate into the clouds and the clouds will roam away to South Carolina and rain on John’s tree, there, and in that way they’ll be together. Some part of them, at least.

A pretty thought. Impossible, but comforting.

The rocks are approaching and Jefferson is grinning and there’s spots at the edges of his vision, closing in.

He can’t hold his breath any longer. He lets it out in a rush of bubbles and draws in water, draws it deep into his lungs, and the rocks close around him.

The rocks swallow him and that’s all there is.

  


* * *

  


Jefferson has teeth like jagged rocks rising out of the ocean.


End file.
